and we all end up alone anyway

Summary: Kamen Rider Ryuki. You tell yourself the dragon in the glass you see out of the corner of your eye is just your mind playing tricks on you.

Author's note: I'm still upset about Yui. (and yes I love Tezuka so much)

Disclaimer: Shinji and Kamen Rider Ryuki aren't mine.

You've been dreaming in broken glass, lately, and you're not exactly sure what triggered it. But your nights have been filled with shards of mirrors that you're too afraid to touch; because somehow you know they'll cut like knives.

You're also not sure why every tall figure in a dark trenchcoat on the streets makes you do a double take. You open your mouth to shout a name that's on the tip of your tongue and a second later the feeling passes and the word is forgotten.

So you shove your hands in your pockets and try to forget about it…about every little moment that makes you question your existence and wonder about other worlds and other realms that are maybe found in the broken mirrors of your dreams.

"Do you think maybe people have lived other lives?" You hesitantly ask the Editor-in-Chief one afternoon. You hear Shimada stop her furious typing in curiosity at the answer. Okubo just laughs and gives you a weird look.

"What kind of a question is that, Shinji? You're not usually the type to think like that."

You blink at him, and for once you refuse to budge. The Editor's face sobers up and he leans back against the table with his mug in hand.

"What, like reincarnation?"

"No," You shake your head and wonder what exactly you mean. "Like…if the world you're living in is the wrong one."

Okubo is quiet for a long moment, and no one in the office dares to breathe. "I think everything turns out the way it's meant to be." He gives you a hard stare. "Because if you doubt yourself in that way, you're not really living, are you?"

You try to take his advice to heart, so you stop thinking. You stop questioning, and you try your hardest to stop doubting, but the red dragon in the glass keeps following you and when you turn to face it it's already gone. It's just your mind playing tricks on you, you tell yourself, because you haven't been sleeping well lately.

And your dreams evolve. The shards are coming together and forming images—horrifying monsters that reach through glass to eat people and strange masked men who fight each other without any clear goal in mind. You want to scream at them to stop, but then you get the terrified thought that you could just as easily be one of them, so you shut your mouth.

There's a girl, sometimes. She's young, and pretty, with short hair and a genuine smile that makes her eyes light up. You don't know why your chest feels this pained stab when you look at her, or why you suddenly have this feeling of nostalgia deep in your stomach.

No, not nostalgia.

Yearning.

You're not one for cafes, but you find them more appealing lately. Instead of drinking coffee you've begun drinking tea and you've developed a taste for it, although you haven't seemed to be able to find the right tea.

The chair you're sitting in is uncomfortable, but your table is outside in the warm sun so you don't mind too much. A young man walks by but then stops and turns as though drawn to you on a string.

He tilts his head and squints his eyes, inspecting you. You want to say something but can't get the words past your throat.

"Would you like your future told?" He asks suddenly, taking the seat across from yours.

"Er," You say. Normally you don't believe in stuff like this, but there's something different about this man. Like he was a childhood friend that you can't remember the last name of. "Okay."

He flips an American quarter and catches it midair, his eyes glazed over and distant. When he finally lifts his head to meet your gaze he looks indescribably sad. The man's lips tighten into a line.

"You're lost," He mutters finally. "And you don't belong."

You stand up abruptly, a cold liquid replacing the waters in your veins. It's accurate-too accurate.

"I thought you were supposed to predict my future." You swallow, looking down on him.

"If you continue like this, you'll never find your way."

You turn to leave. This was too much, too close, too fast. You're afraid of suffocating.

"My predictions are always correct." He calls after you.

You keep walking.

You don't know what else to do.